


At Least The Sandwiches Were Good

by listerinezero



Series: Fighting the Good Fight [2]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Politics, Sandwiches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listerinezero/pseuds/listerinezero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik accompanies Charles on a trip to Washington and tries to stay out of trouble this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Least The Sandwiches Were Good

**Author's Note:**

> I named this 'verse for a comment left by Zooey_Glass, who described their relationship in this universe as “clearly grumpily and happily married and busy fighting the good fight.” I loved that. Thank you!

_Good evening. I’m John Daley, and these are tonight’s top stories._

_Congressional hearings continued in the Senate today, with voting on the controversial Genetic Integrity Act set for February 4. The law would require government oversight in any genetic testing, tampering, or modification of living organisms. Among the key witnesses today was Dr. Charles Xavier, who spoke in opposition to the bill. Although the law is meant to regulate genetically modified foodstuffs, Xavier says that it could also have dire consequences for American mutants._

The program then cut to Charles in his wheelchair in front of the Capitol. He was flanked on one side by Erik and on the other side by his assistant, Penny. They were bundled up in the cold, their noses pink and their scarves wrapped tight around their necks. Charles refused to wear a hat over his bald head, even in single-digit temperatures, especially not on TV, and the tips of his ears looked painfully cold.

 _“The Genetic Integrity Act is a direct threat to the privacy and safety of all mutants in America,”_ he said. _“It would open the door to the regulation and monitoring of human-mutant personal relationships and potentially outlaw bi-species children. I’ve spent the past twenty-five years fighting to ensure that mutants can live freely in America, and if conservative politicians think that they can slip something like this into an agricultural bill without my noticing, then they have severely underestimated me.”_

 _Xavier was accompanied today by his colleague_ _Erik Lehnsherr_ , _marking Lehnsherr’s first appearance on Capitol Hill since he famously called Senator Bryant a “short-sighted toad.” About the incident, Lehnsherr declined to comment._

*

They drove away from the Capitol in silence, the mood tense in the slow-moving taxi. Charles kept a hand over his eyes as though he was kneading a headache.

“I think that went well,” Erik pronounced when they’d lost sight of the news crews.

Charles peered at him through his fingers and chuckled. “Well, you weren’t escorted from chambers for making an elected official cry this time, so I guess that counts as a win.”

“I was a model citizen today. You should be very proud of me.”

Charles patted him on the knee. “You were a model permanent resident, darling,” he said, and turned back to the car window.

*

It was a short drive back to their two-bedroom apartment on Massachussetts Avenue, and from almost the moment they arrived, Charles and Penny were set to work at the kitchen table. Charles was on the phone with lobbyists and Penny was muttering to herself and frowning into the largest book with the smallest text Erik had ever seen.

Erik, on the other hand, had nothing to do. He wanted to help, of course, but this particular bit of business wasn't really his area, and he'd promised Charles that he'd keep a low profile. He wasn't even going to come for this trip, but he was getting a little stir-crazy at home after being snowed-in for nearly a week. A change of scenery seemed like a good idea.

But there was nothing for him to do. Their apartment was spacious enough for Charles' wheelchair, but small enough that no matter where Erik went, he felt like he was in the way. It was too cold to go wander around the city for a while, and there was nothing in the apartment to keep him occupied. There were no books (aside from legal texts and congressional transcripts), no TV (except for the small one in Penny's room, not that Erik cared much for TV), no stereo (Charles wouldn't allow music while he worked anyway). There was nothing on the walls, no framed photos, no personal effects. Their DC apartment was relegated to business-only.

He paced the living room for a couple of minutes, then went and poked around the kitchen. The only thing in the cupboards was a half-empty, two-year-old box of bran flakes. He made a face and threw it in the garbage.

“I’m going for sandwiches,” he announced, and was out the door before Charles even looked up from his notes.

Erik walked the four blocks from their apartment to a deli that, in his opinion, was worth the five hour drive from Westchester all by itself. And the fact that the staff quietly let him know that they welcomed and supported him made him feel like he was doing the right thing for Mutantkind by going there for roast beef sandwiches nearly every day.

When he got there, he found the place packed. Crowds of people in full winter gear filled the small restaurant, clutching hot coffee and clamoring for chicken soup. Erik was a regular and was normally treated like one, but this time, after he placed his usual order (roast beef for him, turkey club on whole wheat for Charles, Italian sub for Penny), they actually gave him a number and told him to wait.

He stood off to the side and tried not to draw too much attention to himself. He grabbed a copy of the City Paper and leafed through it, not really reading any of the articles. He eavesdropped on two young men complaining about their girlfriends, thinking that those girls should have dumped the pair of them weeks ago. For the most part, no one paid him any attention.

Except for one, sweaty-looking man of about twenty-five, who was glaring at him. Erik tried to ignore him.

“You’re Magneto,” the man said.

Erik looked up at him and scowled. “No, I’m number 63,” said and held up his ticket: the politest way he could think to say “Leave me the fuck alone.”

“It’s wrong what you’re doing.”

“Getting lunch?”

“Mutants are an abomination. It’s in the Bible.”

Erik rolled his eyes. Fucking amateur. He stepped over towards the counter and called out to the staff he knew the best. “Can you put a rush on 63?”

“You don’t understand! Your kind is ruining this country! It’s ‘We the People!’ Not ‘We the Mutants!’” the man continued and stepped in front of him. That was when Erik noticed that he carried a gun tucked into his belt.

It would be so sweet to remove it from him. Float the gun out of the man’s belt and say, _You won’t be needing this_ , and turn it into… oh, a little metal pony or something. He would love it. He ached to do it. But he couldn’t. The deli was too crowded and he'd promised he'd stay out of trouble. Besides, so far the man hadn't made any overt threats, and Erik refused to make the first move.

“You don’t want any trouble with me, son,” he hissed, “Now please, back off.”

The man reached out and grabbed Erik by the arm.

“Get your hands off of me,” he sneered and shook the man off. Erik felt the gun pulsing, calling to him, and just when he decided to confiscate the weapon, the restaurant’s manager stepped out from behind the counter and asked the man to leave.

“You’re disturbing our customers,” the manager said. “If you don’t leave now, I will have to call the police.”

When the man finally agreed to leave, some of the other customers broke into applause, and when Erik went to pay for his sandwiches, the manager refused to take his money. Erik stuffed $40 into the tip jar and left the deli with a smile on his face. He left in such a good mood that he even stopped and bought a book for himself on the way back home.

*

“You’ve been gone for over an hour. I was starting to think you were kidnapped,” Charles greeted him when he returned.

Erik pressed a kiss to the side of Charles’ head. “Long line,” he told him, and handed him his sandwich. “And I picked up something to read. Unless you need me to help, of course.”

Charles eyed the Dean Koontz paperback in Erik’s hand. “No, of course not. That’s fine,” he said, his tone laced with sarcasm. “In fact, The Young and the Restless will be coming on soon if you’d like to pop into Penny’s room and watch.”

Penny snorted into her hand, and Erik shook his head. He turned to her with a smirk. “Do you hear the way he talks to me?”

Penny just smiled and told him, “The button on the TV sticks sometimes, so you have to kind of wiggle it,” which only caused Charles to burst out laughing.

Erik looked back and forth between Penny and Charles, who were both terribly amused. They must be getting punchy from stress, Erik thought. “Well, see if I let either one of you borrow the book when I’m done,” he threatened playfully, and with that he retired to the stiff living room sofa with his novel and his roast beef sandwich.

*

At 2:45am, Erik woke to a light shining in his face. It was Charles’ little book light. Charles was propped up on four pillows, leafing through a mammoth text on constitutional law. His reading glasses did little to hide the dark circles under his eyes.

“Why are you still up? Go to sleep,” Erik mumbled.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m just still trying to make sense of this.”

Erik sat up next to him and grunted, “You need to go to sleep. You’ll work better in the morning.”

Charles didn’t protest when Erik gently removed his glasses from his face, turned off the reading light, and tucked him back under the covers.

“I’m worried about this one,” Charles said into the darkness.

Erik turned and wrapped his arm around Charles’ torso. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Charles murmured, dragging the tips of his fingers up and down Erik’s forearm. “It seems so silly, that this of all things would worry me so much, but when we were there today, I could hear everyone thinking that I was overreacting. I just feel like even the people who support us might let this one slide. I don’t think they take the repercussions seriously, and I don’t think they take me seriously.”

Erik shifted closer to Charles, whose skin was still soft and clean from his evening shower, and nosed down the crew neck of his t-shirt. “You know,” he mumbled into Charles’ chest, “earlier today, some anti-mutant jackass was giving me a hard time at the deli, and not only did the manager kick him out, but the whole place applauded it. You’ve got more support out there than you think you do.” Erik felt Charles' fingers tuck into his hair. “Don’t think that people don’t take you seriously, because they do. You don’t know how influential you are.”

“Thank you,” Charles whispered, and kissed the top of his head.

“Besides,” Erik said. “You know what the students are calling the Genetic Integrity Act, don’t you?”

“No, what?”

“They’re calling it the ‘G. I. Tract,’ because it’s a load of shit.”

At that, Charles burst out into a laughter so pure and so delighted that Erik couldn’t help but laugh, too.


End file.
